Elizabeth Bishop

(8 February 1911 – 6 October 1979 / Worcester, Massachusetts)

Elizabeth Bishop Poems

1. Faustina, or Rock Roses 4/24/2015
2. Crusoe in England 12/11/2015
3. Suicide Of A Moderate Dictator 2/7/2012
4. Intimate, Low-Voiced, Delicate Things 11/13/2013
5. Manuelzinho 1/1/2004
6. Strayed Crab 1/3/2003
7. Squatter's Children 1/3/2003
8. Little Exercise 1/13/2003
9. Songs For A Colored Singer 1/3/2003
10. Trouvée 1/3/2003
11. Lines Written In The Fannie Farmer Cookbook 1/13/2003
12. View Of The Capitol From The Library Of Congress 1/3/2003
13. Giant Snail 1/13/2003
14. Sonnet (1979) 1/13/2003
15. Song For The Rainy Season 1/3/2003
16. O Breath 1/3/2003
17. Large Bad Picture 1/3/2003
18. Sonnet (1928) 1/13/2003
19. North Haven 1/3/2003
20. While Someone Telephones 1/3/2003
21. Roosters 1/3/2003
22. Visits To St Elizabeths 1/3/2003
23. Sonnet 1/3/2003
24. The Burglar Of Babylon 1/13/2003
25. Casabianca 1/3/2003
26. The Imaginary Iceberg 1/13/2003
27. Rain Towards Morning 1/3/2003
28. The Colder The Air 1/13/2003
29. Sleeping On The Ceiling 1/3/2003
30. To Be Written On The Mirror In Whitewash 1/3/2003
31. The Bight 1/3/2003
32. The Man-Moth 1/3/2003
33. The Weed 1/3/2003
34. Lullaby For The Cat 1/3/2003
35. The Armadillo 1/3/2003
36. The End Of March 1/13/2003
37. Poem 1/3/2003
38. Cirque D'Hiver 1/13/2003
39. Invitation To Miss Marianne Moore 1/3/2003
40. The Unbeliever 1/3/2003
Best Poem of Elizabeth Bishop

One Art

The art of losing isn't hard to master;
so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster,

Lose something every day. Accept the fluster
of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.

Then practice losing farther, losing faster:
places, and names, and where it was you meant
to travel. None of these will bring disaster.

I lost my mother's watch. And look! my last, or
next-to-last, of three loved houses went.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.

I lost two cities, lovely ...

Read the full of One Art

Love Lies Sleeping

Earliest morning, switching all the tracks
that cross the sky from cinder star to star,
coupling the ends of streets
to trains of light.

now draw us into daylight in our beds;
and clear away what presses on the brain:
put out the neon shapes
that float and swell and glare

[Hata Bildir]